The English version of Les Miserables

\"What other case?\" \"Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a man arrested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's a bandit's phiz for you! I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone.\" \"Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?\" said he. \"I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you might make an effort.\" \"Where is the entrance?\" \"Through yonder large door.\" The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experi- enced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had, in turn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more; but he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure. He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket of the session was very heavy; the president had appointed for the same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide, and now they had reached the convict, the old offender, the \"return horse.\" This man had stolen apples, but that did not appear to be entirely proved; what had been proved was, that he had already been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. However, the man's examination and the depositions of the witnesses had been completed, but the lawyer's plea, and the speech of the public prosecutor were still to come; it could not be finished before midnight. The man would probably be condemned; the attorney-general was very clever, and never missed his culprits; he was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses. An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Ass- izes. He inquired of this usher:— \"Will the door be opened soon, sir?\" \"It will not be opened at all,\" replied the usher. \"What! It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing suspended?\" 300

\"The hearing has just been begun again,\" replied the usher, \"but the door will not be opened again.\" \"Why?\" \"Because the hall is full.\" \"What! There is not room for one more?\" \"Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now.\" The usher added after a pause: \"There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Monsieur le President, but Monsieur le Presid- ent only admits public functionaries to them.\" So saying, the usher turned his back. He retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber, and slowly descended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not yet ended; and every moment he encountered some new phase of it. On reaching the landing-place, he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his pocket- book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote rapidly, by the light of the street lantern, this line: M. Madeleine, Mayor of M. sur M.; then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way through the crowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative manner:— \"Take this to Monsieur le President.\" The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed. 301

Chapter 8 An Entrance by Favor Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. enjoyed a sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais; it had eventually passed the con- fines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two or three neighboring departments. Besides the service which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black jet industry, there was not one out of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds the linen factory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at Frevent, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche. Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douai envied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor. The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over this session of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted, in common with the rest of the world, with this name which was so profoundly and univer- sally honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which con- nected the council-chamber with the court-room, bent over the back of the President's arm-chair and handed him the paper on which was in- scribed the line which we have just perused, adding: \"The gentleman de- sires to be present at the trial,\" the President, with a quick and deferential movement, seized a pen and wrote a few words at the bottom of the pa- per and returned it to the usher, saying, \"Admit him.\" The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the door of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the usher had left him. In the midst of his revery he heard some one saying to him, \"Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?\" It was the same usher who had turned his back upon him but a moment previously, and who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the 302

usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light, he could read it. \"The President of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M. Madeleine.\" He crushed the paper in his hand as though those words contained for him a strange and bitter aftertaste. He followed the usher. A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wainscoted cabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles, placed upon a table with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him still rang in his ears: \"Monsieur, you are now in the council-chamber; you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself in the court-room, behind the President's chair.\" These words were mingled in his thoughts with a vague memory of narrow corridors and dark staircases which he had recently traversed. The usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment when there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where the judges deliberated and condemned. With stupid tranquillity he surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment, where so many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring with his name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and that it should be he. He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he was worn out by the jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that he felt nothing. He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which contained, under glass, an ancient autograph letter of Jean Nicolas Pache, mayor of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no doubt, the 9th of June, of the year II., and in which Pache forwarded to the commune the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by them. Any spectator who had chanced to see him at that moment, and who had watched him, would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter struck him as very curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He read it without paying any attention to it, and un- consciously. He was thinking of Fantine and Cosette. 303

As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had al- most forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, re- mained fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples. At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of au- thority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, \"Pardieu! who compels me to this?\" Then he wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow cor- ridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night taper of invalids, the cor- ridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued. When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall. The stone was cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow; he straightened him- self up with a shiver. Then, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something else, too, perchance, he meditated. He had meditated all night long; he had meditated all the day: he heard within him but one voice, which said, \"Alas!\" A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed with agony, dropped his arms, and retraced his steps. He walked slowly, and as though crushed. It seemed as though some one had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back. He re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing he caught sight of was the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished brass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger. He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door. Had he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like a sort of confused murmur; but he did not listen, and he did not hear. 304

Suddenly, without himself knowing how it happened, he found him- self near the door; he grasped the knob convulsively; the door opened. He was in the court-room. 305

Chapter 9 A Place where Convictions are in Process of Formation He advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically behind him, and re- mained standing, contemplating what he saw. It was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of uproar, now full of silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of development. At the one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges, with ab- stracted air, in threadbare robes, who were gnawing their nails or closing their eyelids; at the other end, a ragged crowd; lawyers in all sorts of atti- tudes; soldiers with hard but honest faces; ancient, spotted woodwork, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green; doors blackened by handmarks; tap-room lamps which emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the wainscot; on the tables candles in brass candlesticks; darkness, ugliness, sadness; and from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression, for one there felt that grand human thing which is called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice. No one in all that throng paid any attention to him; all glances were directed towards a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door, in the stretch of wall on the President's left; on this bench, illumin- ated by several candles, sat a man between two gendarmes. This man was the man. He did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither naturally, as though they had known beforehand where that figure was. He thought he was looking at himself, grown old; not absolutely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in attitude and aspect, with his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that blouse, just as it was on the day when he entered D——, full of hatred, concealing his 306

soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nine- teen years in collecting on the floor of the prison. He said to himself with a shudder, \"Good God! shall I become like that again?\" This creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something indes- cribably coarse, stupid, and frightened about him. At the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn aside to make way for him; the President had turned his head, and, understand- ing that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M., he had bowed to him; the attorney-general, who had seen M. Madeleine at M. sur M., whither the duties of his office had called him more than once, recognized him and saluted him also: he had hardly perceived it; he was the victim of a sort of hallucination; he was watching. Judges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads, all these he had already beheld once, in days gone by, twenty-seven years before; he had encountered those fatal things once more; there they were; they moved; they existed; it was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage of his thought; they were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd, and real men of flesh and blood: it was all over; he beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him, with all that there is formidable in reality. All this was yawning before him. He was horrified by it; he shut his eyes, and exclaimed in the deepest recesses of his soul, \"Never!\" And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble, and rendered him nearly mad, it was another self of his that was there! all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean. Under his very eyes, unheard-of vision, he had a sort of representation of the most horrible moment of his life, enacted by his spectre. Everything was there; the apparatus was the same, the hour of the night, the faces of the judges, of soldiers, and of spectators; all were the same, only above the President's head there hung a crucifix, something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation: God had been absent when he had been judged. There was a chair behind him; he dropped into it, terrified at the thought that he might be seen; when he was seated, he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxes, which stood on the judge's desk, to conceal his face from the whole room; he could now see without being seen; he had 307

fully regained consciousness of the reality of things; gradually he re- covered; he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen. M. Bamatabois was one of the jurors. He looked for Javert, but did not see him; the seat of the witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk's table, and then, as we have just said, the hall was sparely lighted. At the moment of this entrance, the defendant's lawyer had just fin- ished his plea. The attention of all was excited to the highest pitch; the affair had las- ted for three hours: for three hours that crowd had been watching a strange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stu- pid or profoundly subtle, gradually bending beneath the weight of a ter- rible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a vagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with ripe apples, broken in the orchard of a neighbor, called the Pierron orchard. Who was this man? an examination had been made; witnesses had been heard, and they were unanimous; light had abounded throughout the entire de- bate; the accusation said: \"We have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an old offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous de- scription, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoyard named Little Gervais; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity shall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh theft; it is a case of a second offence; condemn him for the fresh deed; later on he will be judged for the old crime.\" In the face of this accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the accused appeared to be astonished more than anything else; he made signs and gestures which were meant to convey No, or else he stared at the ceiling: he spoke with difficulty, replied with embarrassment, but his whole person, from head to foot, was a denial; he was an idiot in the presence of all these minds ranged in order of battle around him, and like a stranger in the midst of this society which was seizing fast upon him; nevertheless, it was a question of the most menacing future for him; the likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd surveyed, with more anxiety than he did himself, that sentence freighted with 308

calamity, which descended ever closer over his head; there was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded; besides the galleys, a possible death penalty, in case his identity were established, and the affair of Little Ger- vais were to end thereafter in condemnation. Who was this man? what was the nature of his apathy? was it imbecility or craft? Did he under- stand too well, or did he not understand at all? these were questions which divided the crowd, and seemed to divide the jury; there was something both terrible and puzzling in this case: the drama was not only melancholy; it was also obscure. The counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably well, in that provin- cial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was formerly employed by all advocates, at Paris as well as at Ro- morantin or at Montbrison, and which to-day, having become classic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of magistracy, to whom it is suited on account of its grave sonorousness and its majestic stride; a tongue in which a husband is called a consort, and a woman a spouse; Paris, the centre of art and civilization; the king, the monarch; Monsei- gneur the Bishop, a sainted pontiff; the district-attorney, the eloquent in- terpreter of public prosecution; the arguments, the accents which we have just listened to; the age of Louis XIV., the grand age; a theatre, the temple of Melpomene; the reigning family, the august blood of our kings; a concert, a musical solemnity; the General Commandant of the province, the illustrious warrior, who, etc.; the pupils in the seminary, these tender levities; errors imputed to newspapers, the imposture which distills its venom through the columns of those organs; etc. The lawyer had, accordingly, begun with an explanation as to the theft of the apples,—an awkward matter couched in fine style; but Benigne Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the midst of a funeral ora- tion, and he extricated himself from the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact that the theft of the apples had not been cir- cumstantially proved. His client, whom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling Champmathieu, had not been seen scaling that wall nor breaking that branch by any one. He had been taken with that branch (which the lawyer preferred to call a bough) in his possession; but he said that he had found it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up. Where was there any proof to the contrary? No doubt that branch had been broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then thrown away by the alarmed marauder; there was no doubt that there had been a thief in the case. But what proof was there that that thief had been Champmathieu? One thing only. His character as an ex- 309

convict. The lawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be, un- happily, well attested; the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused had exercised the calling of a tree-pruner there; the name of Champ- mathieu might well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu; all that was true,— in short, four witnesses recognize Champmathieu, positively and without hesitation, as that convict, Jean Valjean; to these signs, to this testimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his client, the denial of an interested party; but supposing that he was the convict Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the apples? that was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner, it was true, and his counsel, \"in good faith,\" was obliged to admit it, had adopted \"a bad sys- tem of defence.\" He obstinately denied everything, the theft and his char- acter of convict. An admission upon this last point would certainly have been better, and would have won for him the indulgence of his judges; the counsel had advised him to do this; but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking, no doubt, that he would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error; but ought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into consideration? This man was visibly stupid. Long-contin- ued wretchedness in the galleys, long misery outside the galleys, had brutalized him, etc. He defended himself badly; was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with Little Gervais, the counsel need not discuss it; it did not enter into the case. The lawyer wound up by be- seeching the jury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to be evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for a criminal who has broken his ban, and not the frightful chastisement which descends upon the convict guilty of a second offence. The district-attorney answered the counsel for the defence. He was vi- olent and florid, as district-attorneys usually are. He congratulated the counsel for the defence on his \"loyalty,\" and skil- fully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed to admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this. So this man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the accusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever autonomasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime, the district-attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic school, then dawning under the name of the Satanic school, which had been bestowed upon it by the critics of the Quotidienne and the Oriflamme; he attributed, not without some probability, to the influence of this perverse literature the 310

crime of Champmathieu, or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exhausted these considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself. Who was this Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean: a monster spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is con- tained in the tale of Theramene, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders great services to judicial eloquence. The audi- ence and the jury \"shuddered.\" The description finished, the district-at- torney resumed with an oratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusi- asm of the journal of the prefecture to the highest pitch on the following day: And it is such a man, etc., etc., etc., vagabond, beggar, without means of existence, etc., etc., inured by his past life to culpable deeds, and but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by the crime committed against Little Gervais, etc., etc.; it is such a man, caught upon the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from a wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the object stolen, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall; denies everything; denies even his own identity! In addition to a hundred other proofs, to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize him—Javert, the up- right inspector of police; Javert, and three of his former companions in infamy, the convicts Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille. What does he offer in opposition to this overwhelming unanimity? His denial. What obduracy! You will do justice, gentlemen of the jury, etc., etc. While the district-attorney was speaking, the accused listened to him open- mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which some admiration was as- suredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could talk like that. From time to time, at those \"energetic\" moments of the prosecutor's speech, when eloquence which cannot contain itself overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the accused like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and from left to right in the sort of mute and melancholy protest with which he had contented himself since the beginning of the argument. Two or three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say in a low voice, \"That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup.\" The district-attorney directed the attention of the jury to this stupid attitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but craft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set forth in all its nakedness the \"profound perversity\" of this man. He ended by making his reserves on the affair of Little Gervais and demand- ing a severe sentence. At that time, as the reader will remember, it was penal servitude for life. 311

The counsel for the defence rose, began by complimenting Monsieur l'Avocat-General on his \"admirable speech,\" then replied as best he could; but he weakened; the ground was evidently slipping away from under his feet. 312

Chapter 10 The System of Denials The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question, \"Have you anything to add to your defence?\" The man did not appear to understand, as he stood there, twisting in his hands a terrible cap which he had. The President repeated the question. This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made a mo- tion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court, laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench, took anoth- er look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the district-attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption. It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth,— incoherent, impetuous, pell- mell, tumbling over each other,— as though they were all pressing for- ward to issue forth at once. He said:— \"This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade. In the wheelwright's trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, un- der sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops, be- cause space is required, you see. In winter one gets so cold that one beats one's arms together to warm one's self; but the masters don't like it; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving- stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly One is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty- three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean! When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but an old bird, old beast! I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. They paid me as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my age— and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She earned a little also. It 313

sufficed for us two. She had trouble, also; all day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow. When the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same; you must still wash. There are people who have not much linen, and wait until late; if you do not wash, you lose your custom. The planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from everywhere; you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants-Rouges, where the water comes through faucets. You are not in the tub there; you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in a basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold; but there is that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes. She came home at seven o'clock in the evening, and went to bed at once, she was so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very happy. She was a good girl, who did not go to the ball, and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tues- day when she went to bed at eight o'clock. There, I am telling the truth; you have only to ask. Ah, yes! how stupid I am! Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Champmathieu there? But M. Baloup does, I tell you. Go see at M. Baloup's; and after all, I don't know what is wanted of me.\" The man ceased speaking, and remained standing. He had said these things in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute some one in the crowd. The sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him at random came like hiccoughs, and to each he added the gesture of a wood-cutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished, the audience burst into a laugh. He stared at the public, and, perceiving that they were laughing, and not understanding why, he began to laugh himself. It was inauspicious. The President, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his voice. He reminded \"the gentlemen of the jury\" that \"the sieur Baloup, formerly a master-wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he had served, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt, and was not to be found.\" Then turning to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to what he was about to say, and added: \"You are in a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon you, and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Pierron orchard, break the branch, and steal the apples; that is to say, commit the crime of 314

breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the discharged con- vict, Jean Valjean— yes or no?\" The prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has thoroughly understood, and who knows what answer he is going to make. He opened his mouth, turned towards the President, and said:— \"In the first place—\" Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace. \"Prisoner,\" said the district-attorney, in a severe voice; \"pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been asked of you. Your embar- rassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Champ- mathieu; that you are the convict, Jean Valjean, concealed first under the name of Jean Mathieu, which was the name of his mother; that you went to Auvergne; that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees. It is evident that you have been guilty of entering, and of the theft of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury will form their own opinion.\" The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly when the district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed:— \"You are very wicked; that you are! This what I wanted to say; I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly; I was walking through the country after a shower, which had made the whole country yellow: even the ponds were overflowed, and nothing sprang from the sand any more but the little blades of grass at the wayside. I found a broken branch with apples on the ground; I picked up the branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison, and they have been dragging me about for the last three months; more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell me, `An- swer!' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and says to me in a low voice, `Come, answer!' I don't know how to explain; I have no education; I am a poor man; that is where they wrong me, be- cause they do not see this. I have not stolen; I picked up from the ground things that were lying there. You say, Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu! I don't know those persons; they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de l'Hopital; my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born; I don't know myself: it's not everybody who has a house in which to come into the world; that would be too conveni- ent. I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along the highways; I know nothing different. When I was a child, they called 315

me young fellow; now they call me old fellow; those are my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne; I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! can't a man have been in Auvergne, or at Faver- olles, without having been in the galleys? I tell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu; I have been with M. Baloup; I have had a settled residence. You worry me with your nonsense, there! Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously?\" The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President:— \"Monsieur le President, in view of the confused but exceedingly clever denials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing,— we shall attend to that,—we de- mand that it shall please you and that it shall please the court to summon once more into this place the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenil- dieu, and Police-Inspector Javert, and question them for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean.\" \"I would remind the district-attorney,\" said the President, \"that Police- Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital of a neighboring ar- rondissement, left the court-room and the town as soon as he had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission, with the consent of the district-attorney and of the counsel for the prisoner.\" \"That is true, Mr. President,\" responded the district-attorney. \"In the absence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentlemen of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable man, who does honor by his rigorous and strict probity to inferior but import- ant functions. These are the terms of his deposition: `I do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisoner's denial. I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champmathieu; he is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and is very vicious and much to be feared. It is only with extreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his term. He underwent nineteen years of penal servitude for theft. He made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from the Pierron orchard, I sus- pect him of a theft committed in the house of His Grace the late Bishop of D—— I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of the galley- guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I recognize him perfectly.'\" This extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid impres- sion on the public and on the jury. The district-attorney concluded by 316

insisting, that in default of Javert, the three witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille should be heard once more and solemnly interrogated. The President transmitted the order to an usher, and, a moment later, the door of the witnesses' room opened. The usher, accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him armed assistance, introduced the convict Brevet. The audience was in suspense; and all breasts heaved as though they had contained but one soul. The ex-convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of the central prisons. Brevet was a person sixty years of age, who had a sort of busi- ness man's face, and the air of a rascal. The two sometimes go together. In prison, whither fresh misdeeds had led him, he had become something in the nature of a turnkey. He was a man of whom his superi- ors said, \"He tries to make himself of use.\" The chaplains bore good testi- mony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration. \"Brevet,\" said the President, \"you have undergone an ignominious sen- tence, and you cannot take an oath.\" Brevet dropped his eyes. \"Nevertheless,\" continued the President, \"even in the man whom the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour. If it still exists in you,—and I hope it does,—reflect be- fore replying to me: consider on the one hand, this man, whom a word from you may ruin; on the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten. The instant is solemn; there is still time to retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on your soul and con- science, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?\" Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court. \"Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it; that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now; but it must be because age has brutalized him; he was sly at the galleys: I recognize him positively.\" \"Take your seat,\" said the President. \"Prisoner, remain standing.\" Chenildieu was brought in, a prisoner for life, as was indicated by his red cassock and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence at the 317

galleys of Toulon, whence he had been brought for this case. He was a small man of about fifty, brisk, wrinkled, frail, yellow, brazen-faced, fe- verish, who had a sort of sickly feebleness about all his limbs and his whole person, and an immense force in his glance. His companions in the galleys had nicknamed him I-deny-God (Je-nie Dieu, Chenildieu). The President addressed him in nearly the same words which he had used to Brevet. At the moment when he reminded him of his infamy which deprived him of the right to take an oath, Chenildieu raised his head and looked the crowd in the face. The President invited him to re- flection, and asked him as he had asked Brevet, if he persisted in recogni- tion of the prisoner. Chenildieu burst out laughing. \"Pardieu, as if I didn't recognize him! We were attached to the same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow?\" \"Go take your seat,\" said the President. The usher brought in Cochepaille. He was another convict for life, who had come from the galleys, and was dressed in red, like Chenildieu, was a peasant from Lourdes, and a half-bear of the Pyrenees. He had guarded the flocks among the mountains, and from a shepherd he had slipped into a brigand. Cochepaille was no less savage and seemed even more stupid than the prisoner. He was one of those wretched men whom nature has sketched out for wild beasts, and on whom society puts the finishing touches as convicts in the galleys. The President tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words, and asked him, as he had asked the other two, if he persisted, without hesitation or trouble, in recognizing the man who was standing before him. \"He is Jean Valjean,\" said Cochepaille. \"He was even called Jean-the- Screw, because he was so strong.\" Each of these affirmations from these three men, evidently sincere and in good faith, had raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury for the prisoner,—a murmur which increased and lasted longer each time that a fresh declaration was added to the proceeding. The prisoner had listened to them, with that astounded face which was, according to the accusation, his principal means of defence; at the first, the gendarmes, his neighbors, had heard him mutter between his teeth: \"Ah, well, he's a nice one!\" after the second, he said, a little louder, 318

with an air that was almost that of satisfaction, \"Good!\" at the third, he cried, \"Famous!\" The President addressed him:— \"Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?\" He replied:— \"I say, `Famous!'\" An uproar broke out among the audience, and was communicated to the jury; it was evident that the man was lost. \"Ushers,\" said the President, \"enforce silence! I am going to sum up the arguments.\" At that moment there was a movement just beside the President; a voice was heard crying:— \"Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!\" All who heard that voice were chilled, so lamentable and terrible was it; all eyes were turned to the point whence it had proceeded. A man, placed among the privileged spectators who were seated behind the court, had just risen, had pushed open the half-door which separated the tribunal from the audience, and was standing in the middle of the hall; the President, the district-attorney, M. Bamatabois, twenty persons, re- cognized him, and exclaimed in concert:— \"M. Madeleine!\" 319

Chapter 11 Champmathieu more and more Astonished It was he, in fact. The clerk's lamp illumined his countenance. He held his hat in his hand; there was no disorder in his clothing; his coat was carefully buttoned; he was very pale, and he trembled slightly; his hair, which had still been gray on his arrival in Arras, was now entirely white: it had turned white during the hour he had sat there. All heads were raised: the sensation was indescribable; there was a momentary hesitation in the audience, the voice had been so heart-rend- ing; the man who stood there appeared so calm that they did not under- stand at first. They asked themselves whether he had indeed uttered that cry; they could not believe that that tranquil man had been the one to give that terrible outcry. This indecision only lasted a few seconds. Even before the President and the district-attorney could utter a word, before the ushers and the gendarmes could make a gesture, the man whom all still called, at that moment, M. Madeleine, had advanced towards the witnesses Cochepaille, Brevet, and Chenildieu. \"Do you not recognize me?\" said he. All three remained speechless, and indicated by a sign of the head that they did not know him. Cochepaille, who was intimidated, made a milit- ary salute. M. Madeleine turned towards the jury and the court, and said in a gentle voice:— \"Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Mr. Presid- ent, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search of; it is I: I am Jean Valjean.\" Not a mouth breathed; the first commotion of astonishment had been followed by a silence like that of the grave; those within the hall experi- enced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses when something grand has been done. 320

In the meantime, the face of the President was stamped with sympathy and sadness; he had exchanged a rapid sign with the district-attorney and a few low-toned words with the assistant judges; he addressed the public, and asked in accents which all understood:— \"Is there a physician present?\" The district-attorney took the word:— \"Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a sen- timent which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by repu- tation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M.; if there is a physician in the audience, we join the President in requesting him to attend to M. Madeleine, and to conduct him to his home.\" M.Madeleine did not allow the district-attorney to finish; he interrup- ted him in accents full of suavity and authority. These are the words which he uttered; here they are literally, as they were written down, im- mediately after the trial by one of the witnesses to this scene, and as they now ring in the ears of those who heard them nearly forty years ago:— \"I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see; you were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth. God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that suf- fices. You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best; I con- cealed myself under another name; I have become rich; I have become a mayor; I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I cannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you; you will hear it one of these days. I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true; it is true that I robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so greatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to Providence, nor any advice to give to soci- ety; but, you see, the infamy from which I have tried to escape is an in- jurious thing; the galleys make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please. Before going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very little intelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change in me. I was stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood; I became a firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had ruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. 321

You will find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the forty-sou piece which I stole, seven years ago, from little Gervais. I have nothing farther to add; take me. Good God! the district-attorney shakes his head; you say, 'M. Madeleine has gone mad!' you do not believe me! that is dis- tressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! these men do not re- cognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize me.\" Nothing can reproduce the sombre and kindly melancholy of tone which accompanied these words. He turned to the three convicts, and said:— \"Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet?\" He paused, hesitated for an instant, and said:— \"Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which you wore in the galleys?\" Brevet gave a start of surprise, and surveyed him from head to foot with a frightened air. He continued:— \"Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of `Jenie-Dieu,' your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn, because you one day laid your shoulder against the chafing-dish full of coals, in order to efface the three letters T. F. P., which are still visible, nevertheless; answer, is this true?\" \"It is true,\" said Chenildieu. He addressed himself to Cochepaille:— \"Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped in blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing of the Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve!\" Cochepaille pushed up his sleeve; all eyes were focused on him and on his bare arm. A gendarme held a light close to it; there was the date. The unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile which still rends the hearts of all who saw it whenever they think of it. It was a smile of triumph; it was also a smile of despair. \"You see plainly,\" he said, \"that I am Jean Valjean.\" In that chamber there were no longer either judges, accusers, nor gen- darmes; there was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing hearts. No one recalled any longer the part that each might be called upon to play; the district-attorney forgot he was there for the purpose of prosecuting, the President that he was there to preside, the counsel for the defence 322

that he was there to defend. It was a striking circumstance that no ques- tion was put, that no authority intervened. The peculiarity of sublime spectacles is, that they capture all souls and turn witnesses into spectat- ors. No one, probably, could have explained what he felt; no one, prob- ably, said to himself that he was witnessing the splendid outburst of a grand light: all felt themselves inwardly dazzled. It was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes. That was clear. The appearance of this man had sufficed to suffuse with light that matter which had been so obscure but a moment previously, without any further explanation: the whole crowd, as by a sort of electric revela- tion, understood instantly and at a single glance the simple and magnifi- cent history of a man who was delivering himself up so that another man might not be condemned in his stead. The details, the hesitations, little possible oppositions, were swallowed up in that vast and luminous fact. It was an impression which vanished speedily, but which was irresist- ible at the moment. \"I do not wish to disturb the court further,\" resumed Jean Valjean. \"I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do. The district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going; he can have me arrested when he likes.\" He directed his steps towards the door. Not a voice was raised, not an arm extended to hinder him. All stood aside. At that moment there was about him that divine something which causes multitudes to stand aside and make way for a man. He traversed the crowd slowly. It was never known who opened the door, but it is certain that he found the door open when he reached it. On arriving there he turned round and said:— \"I am at your command, Mr. District-Attorney.\" Then he addressed the audience:— \"All of you, all who are present—consider me worthy of pity, do you not? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I con- sider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur.\" He withdrew, and the door closed behind him as it had opened, for those who do certain sovereign things are always sure of being served by some one in the crowd. Less than an hour after this, the verdict of the jury freed the said Champmathieu from all accusations; and Champmathieu, being at once 323

released, went off in a state of stupefaction, thinking that all men were fools, and comprehending nothing of this vision. 324

Part 8 A Counter-Blow 325

Chapter 1 In what Mirror M. Madeleine contemplates his Hair The day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and feverish night, filled with happy visions; at daybreak she fell asleep. Sister Sim- plice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona. The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending over her drugs and phials, and scrutinizing things very closely, on account of the dimness which the half-light of dawn spreads over all objects. Suddenly she raised her head and uttered a faint shriek. M. Madeleine stood before her; he had just entered silently. \"Is it you, Mr. Mayor?\" she exclaimed. He replied in a low voice:— \"How is that poor woman?\" \"Not so bad just now; but we have been very uneasy.\" She explained to him what had passed: that Fantine had been very ill the day before, and that she was better now, because she thought that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child. The sister dared not question the mayor; but she perceived plainly from his air that he had not come from there. \"All that is good,\" said he; \"you were right not to undeceive her.\" \"Yes,\" responded the sister; \"but now, Mr. Mayor, she will see you and will not see her child. What shall we say to her?\" He reflected for a moment. \"God will inspire us,\" said he. \"But we cannot tell a lie,\" murmured the sister, half aloud. It was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full on M. Madeleine's face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it. 326

\"Good God, sir!\" she exclaimed; \"what has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white!\" \"White!\" said he. Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. M. Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said:— \"Well!\" He uttered the word indifferently, and as though his mind were on something else. The sister felt chilled by something strange of which she caught a glimpse in all this. He inquired:— \"Can I see her?\" \"Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her?\" said the sister, hardly venturing to put the question. \"Of course; but it will take two or three days at least.\" \"If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time,\" went on the sister, timidly, \"she would not know that Monsieur le Maire had re- turned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience; and when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact a lie.\" M. Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments; then he said with his calm gravity:— \"No, sister, I must see her. I may, perhaps, be in haste.\" The nun did not appear to notice this word \"perhaps,\" which commu- nicated an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor's speech. She replied, lowering her eyes and her voice respectfully:— \"In that case, she is asleep; but Monsieur le Maire may enter.\" He made some remarks about a door which shut badly, and the noise of which might awaken the sick woman; then he entered Fantine's cham- ber, approached the bed and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep. Her breath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is peculi- ar to those maladies, and which breaks the hearts of mothers when they are watching through the night beside their sleeping child who is con- demned to death. But this painful respiration hardly troubled a sort of ineffable serenity which overspread her countenance, and which 327

transfigured her in her sleep. Her pallor had become whiteness; her cheeks were crimson; her long golden lashes, the only beauty of her youth and her virginity which remained to her, palpitated, though they remained closed and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an indescribable unfolding of wings, all ready to open wide and bear her away, which could be felt as they rustled, though they could not be seen. To see her thus, one would never have dreamed that she was an invalid whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather something on the point of soaring away than something on the point of dying. The branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower, and seems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time. The human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives in which the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul. M. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed, gaz- ing in turn upon the sick woman and the crucifix, as he had done two months before, on the day when he had come for the first time to see her in that asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude— she sleeping, he praying; only now, after the lapse of two months, her hair was gray and his was white. The sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed, with his finger on his lips, as though there were some one in the chamber whom he must enjoin to silence. She opened her eyes, saw him, and said quietly, with a smile:— \"And Cosette?\" 328

Chapter 2 Fantine Happy She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself. That simple question, \"And Cosette?\" was put with so profound a faith, with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:— \"I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of ce- lestial forms.\" He raised his glance to the crucifix. \"But,\" she resumed, \"tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place her on my bed against the moment of my waking?\" He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to recall. Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his ap- pearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine. \"Calm yourself, my child,\" said the doctor; \"your child is here.\" Fantine's eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped her hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to prayer in the way of violence and tenderness. \"Oh!\" she exclaimed, \"bring her to me!\" Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little child who is carried. \"Not yet,\" said the doctor, \"not just now. You still have some fever. The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be cured first.\" She interrupted him impetuously:— 329

\"But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!\" \"You see,\" said the doctor, \"how excited you become. So long as you are in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are reason- able, I will bring her to you myself.\" The poor mother bowed her head. \"I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I un- derstand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like, but I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly from Montfer- meil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave as though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. When it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, `She must have her child.'\" M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned to- wards him; she was making a visible effort to be calm and \"very good,\" as she expressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine. \"Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were to go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten me by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those Thenardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself dur- ing all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh, how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le Maire? 330

Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that dili- gence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the master; it could be so if you chose!\" He took her hand. \"Cosette is beautiful,\" he said, \"Cosette is well. You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too much vi- vacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the clothes, and that makes you cough.\" In fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word. Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of inspir- ing, and she began to talk of indifferent things. \"Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thenardiers prosperous? There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a cook-shop.\" M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with anxi- ety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit, retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them. But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed:— \"I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!\" She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath, and began to listen with rapture. There was a child playing in the yard—the child of the portress or of some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always oc- curring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child—a little girl— was going and coming, run- ning to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was this little girl whom Fantine heard singing. \"Oh!\" she resumed, \"it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice.\" The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M. Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: \"How wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that he has.\" But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She continued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow: 331

\"How happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell. She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first communion?\" She began to reckon on her fingers. \"One, two, three, four—she is seven years old. In five years she will have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little wo- man. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I think of my daughter's first communion!\" She began to laugh. He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one listens to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine had become terrible. She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her face, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something alarming at the other extremity of the room. \"Good God!\" he exclaimed; \"what ails you, Fantine?\" She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the other made him a sign to look behind him. He turned, and beheld Javert. 332

Chapter 3 Javert Satisfied This is what had taken place. The half-hour after midnight had just struck when M. Madeleine quit- ted the Hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set out again by the mail-wagon, in which he had engaged his place. A little before six o'clock in the morning he had arrived at M. sur M., and his first care had been to post a letter to M. Laffitte, then to enter the infirm- ary and see Fantine. However, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Ass- izes, when the district-attorney, recovering from his first shock, had taken the word to deplore the mad deed of the honorable mayor of M. sur M., to declare that his convictions had not been in the least modified by that curious incident, which would be explained thereafter, and to de- mand, in the meantime, the condemnation of that Champmathieu, who was evidently the real Jean Valjean. The district-attorney's persistence was visibly at variance with the sentiments of every one, of the public, of the court, and of the jury. The counsel for the defence had some diffi- culty in refuting this harangue and in establishing that, in consequence of the revelations of M. Madeleine, that is to say, of the real Jean Valjean, the aspect of the matter had been thoroughly altered, and that the jury had before their eyes now only an innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemas, not very fresh, unfortunately, upon judicial errors, etc., etc.; the President, in his summing up, had joined the counsel for the defence, and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champ- mathieu out of the case. Nevertheless, the district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Valjean; and as he had no longer Champmathieu, he took Madeleine. Immediately after Champmathieu had been set at liberty, the district- attorney shut himself up with the President. They conferred \"as to the necessity of seizing the person of M. le Maire of M. sur M.\" This phrase, 333

in which there was a great deal of of, is the district-attorney's, written with his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney-general. His first emotion having passed off, the President did not offer many ob- jections. Justice must, after all, take its course. And then, when all was said, although the President was a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was, at the same time, a devoted and almost an ardent royalist, and he had been shocked to hear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the Emperor, and not Bonaparte, when alluding to the landing at Cannes. The order for his arrest was accordingly despatched. The district-attor- ney forwarded it to M. sur M. by a special messenger, at full speed, and entrusted its execution to Police Inspector Javert. The reader knows that Javert had returned to M. sur M. immediately after having given his deposition. Javert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the order of arrest and the command to produce the prisoner. The messenger himself was a very clever member of the police, who, in two words, informed Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The or- der of arrest, signed by the district-attorney, was couched in these words: \"Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M., who, in this day's session of the court, was recog- nized as the liberated convict, Jean Valjean.\" Any one who did not know Javert, and who had chanced to see him at the moment when he penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what had taken place, and would have thought his air the most ordinary in the world. He was cool, calm, grave, his gray hair was perfectly smooth upon his temples, and he had just mounted the stairs with his habitual deliberation. Any one who was thoroughly acquainted with him, and who had examined him attentively at the mo- ment, would have shuddered. The buckle of his leather stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape of his neck. This betrayed unwonted agitation. Javert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform; methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of his coat. That he should have set the buckle of his stock awry, it was indispens- able that there should have taken place in him one of those emotions which may be designated as internal earthquakes. 334

He had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighbor- ing post for a corporal and four soldiers, had left the soldiers in the courtyard, had had Fantine's room pointed out to him by the portress, who was utterly unsuspicious, accustomed as she was to seeing armed men inquiring for the mayor. On arriving at Fantine's chamber, Javert turned the handle, pushed the door open with the gentleness of a sick-nurse or a police spy, and entered. Properly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in the half-open door, his hat on his head and his left hand thrust into his coat, which was buttoned up to the chin. In the bend of his elbow the leaden head of his enormous cane, which was hidden behind him, could be seen. Thus he remained for nearly a minute, without his presence being per- ceived. All at once Fantine raised her eyes, saw him, and made M. Madeleine turn round. The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glance, Javert, without stirring, without moving from his post, without approaching him, became terrible. No human sentiment can be as terrible as joy. It was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul. The satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean caused all that was in his soul to appear in his countenance. The depths having been stirred up, mounted to the surface. The humiliation of having, in some slight degree, lost the scent, and of having indulged, for a few moments, in an error with regard to Champmathieu, was effaced by pride at hav- ing so well and accurately divined in the first place, and of having for so long cherished a just instinct. Javert's content shone forth in his sover- eign attitude. The deformity of triumph overspread that narrow brow. All the demonstrations of horror which a satisfied face can afford were there. Javert was in heaven at that moment. Without putting the thing clearly to himself, but with a confused intuition of the necessity of his presence and of his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil. Behind him and around him, at an infinite distance, he had authority, reason, the case judged, the legal con- science, the public prosecution, all the stars; he was protecting order, he was causing the law to yield up its thunders, he was avenging society, he was lending a helping hand to the absolute, he was standing erect in the midst of a glory. There existed in his victory a remnant of defiance and of combat. Erect, haughty, brilliant, he flaunted abroad in open day the 335

superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel. The terrible shadow of the action which he was accomplishing caused the vague flash of the so- cial sword to be visible in his clenched fist; happy and indignant, he held his heel upon crime, vice, rebellion, perdition, hell; he was radiant, he ex- terminated, he smiled, and there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous Saint Michael. Javert, though frightful, had nothing ignoble about him. Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the sense of duty, are things which may become hideous when wrongly directed; but which, even when hideous, remain grand: their majesty, the majesty peculiar to the human conscience, clings to them in the midst of horror; they are virtues which have one vice,—error. The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radi- ance. Without himself suspecting the fact, Javert in his formidable happi- ness was to be pitied, as is every ignorant man who triumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face, wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good. 336

Chapter 4 Authority reasserts its Rights Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing, but the only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her. She could not endure that terrible face; she felt her life quitting her; she hid her face in both hands, and shrieked in her anguish:— \"Monsieur Madeleine, save me!\" Jean Valjean—we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise— had risen. He said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices:— \"Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come.\" Then he addressed Javert, and said:— \"I know what you want.\" Javert replied:— \"Be quick about it!\" There lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, \"Be quick about it!\" he said \"Bequiabouit.\" No orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered: it was no longer a human word: it was a roar. He did not proceed according to his custom, he did not enter into the matter, he exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes, Jean Valjean was a sort of mysterious combatant, who was not to be laid hands upon, a wrestler in the dark whom he had had in his grasp for the last five years, without being able to throw him. This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying, \"Be quick about it!\" As he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step; he hurled at Jean Valjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook, and with which he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him. 337

It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very mar- row of her bones two months previously. At Javert's exclamation, Fantine opened her eyes once more. But the mayor was there; what had she to fear? Javert advanced to the middle of the room, and cried:— \"See here now! Art thou coming?\" The unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present except- ing the nun and the mayor. To whom could that abject use of \"thou\" be addressed? To her only. She shuddered. Then she beheld a most unprecedented thing, a thing so unpreceden- ted that nothing equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest deli- riums of fever. She beheld Javert, the police spy, seize the mayor by the collar; she saw the mayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was coming to an end. Javert had, in fact, grasped Jean Valjean by the collar. \"Monsieur le Maire!\" shrieked Fantine. Javert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed all his gums. \"There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!\" Jean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped the collar of his coat. He said:— \"Javert—\" Javert interrupted him: \"Call me Mr. Inspector.\" \"Monsieur,\" said Jean Valjean, \"I should like to say a word to you in private.\" \"Aloud! Say it aloud!\" replied Javert; \"people are in the habit of talking aloud to me.\" Jean Valjean went on in a lower tone:— \"I have a request to make of you—\" \"I tell you to speak loud.\" \"But you alone should hear it—\" \"What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen.\" Jean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly and in a very low voice:— 338

\"Grant me three days' grace! three days in which to go and fetch the child of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You shall accompany me if you choose.\" \"You are making sport of me!\" cried Javert. \"Come now, I did not think you such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in which to run away! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature's child! Ah! Ah! That's good! That's really capital!\" Fantine was seized with a fit of trembling. \"My child!\" she cried, \"to go and fetch my child! She is not here, then! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire!\" Javert stamped his foot. \"And now there's the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy? It's a pretty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates, and where women of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we are going to change all that; it is high time!\" He stared intently at Fantine, and added, once more taking into his grasp Jean Valjean's cravat, shirt and collar:— \"I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is no Monsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean Valjean! And I have him in my grasp! That's what there is!\" Fantine raised herself in bed with a bound, supporting herself on her stiffened arms and on both hands: she gazed at Jean Valjean, she gazed at Javert, she gazed at the nun, she opened her mouth as though to speak; a rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat, her teeth chattered; she stretched out her arms in her agony, opening her hands convulsively, and fumbling about her like a drowning person; then sud- denly fell back on her pillow. Her head struck the head-board of the bed and fell forwards on her breast, with gaping mouth and staring, sightless eyes. She was dead. Jean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert, and opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby; then he said to Javert:— \"You have murdered that woman.\" 339

\"Let's have an end of this!\" shouted Javert, in a fury; \"I am not here to listen to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard is below; march on instantly, or you'll get the thumb-screws!\" In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead, which was in a decidedly decrepit state, and which served the sisters as a camp-bed when they were watching with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up to this bed, in a twinkling wrenched off the head-piece, which was already in a dilapidated condition, an easy matter to muscles like his, grasped the principal rod like a bludgeon, and glanced at Javert. Javert retreated to- wards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of iron, walked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there he turned and said to Javert, in a voice that was barely audible:— \"I advise you not to disturb me at this moment.\" One thing is certain, and that is, that Javert trembled. It did occur to him to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might avail himself of that moment to effect his escape; so he remained, grasped his cane by the small end, and leaned against the door-post, without remov- ing his eyes from Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed, and his brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of Fantine, which lay extended there. He remained thus, mute, absorbed, evidently with no further thought of anything connected with this life. Upon his face and in his attitude there was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this meditation he bent towards Fantine, and spoke to her in a low voice. What did he say to her? What could this man, who was reproved, say to that woman, who was dead? What words were those? No one on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions which are, perhaps, sublime realities. The point as to which there exists no doubt is, that Sister Simplice, the sole witness of the incident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valjean whispered in Fantine's ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lips, and in those dim eyes, filled with the amazement of the tomb. Jean Valjean took Fantine's head in both his hands, and arranged it on the pillow as a mother might have done for her child; then he tied the string of her chemise, and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That done, he closed her eyes. Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment. 340

Death, that signifies entrance into the great light. Fantine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt down before that hand, lifted it gently, and kissed it. Then he rose, and turned to Javert. \"Now,\" said he, \"I am at your disposal.\" 341

Chapter 5 A Suitable Tomb Javert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison. The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or rather, an ex- traordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot conceal the fact, that at the single word, \"He was a convict,\" nearly every one deserted him. In less than two hours all the good that he had done had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a \"convict from the galleys.\" It is just to add that the details of what had taken place at Arras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the following were to be heard in all quarters of the town:— \"You don't know? He was a liberated convict!\" \"Who?\" \"The mayor.\" \"Bah! M. Madeleine?\" \"Yes.\" \"Really?\" \"His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name, Bejean, Bojean, Boujean.\" \"Ah! Good God!\" \"He has been arrested.\" \"Arrested!\" \"In prison, in the city prison, while waiting to be transferred.\" \"Until he is transferred!\" \"He is to be trans- ferred!\" \"Where is he to be taken?\" \"He will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago.\" \"Well! I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that.\" The \"drawing-rooms\" particularly abounded in remarks of this nature. One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau Blanc, made the following remark, the depth of which it is impossible to fathom:— \"I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!\" It was thus that the phantom which had been called M. Madeleine vanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town re- mained faithful to his memory. The old portress who had served him was among the number. On the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sitting in her lodge, still in a thorough fright, and absorbed in sad reflections. The 342

factory had been closed all day, the carriage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns, Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of Fantine. Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the good portress rose mechanically, took from a drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, and the flat candlestick which he used every evening to go up to his quarters; then she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one side, as though she was expecting him. Then she sat down again on her chair, and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor, good old woman bad done all this without being conscious of it. It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from her revery, and exclaimed, \"Hold! My good God Jesus! And I hung his key on the nail!\" At that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a hand passed through, seized the key and the candlestick, and lighted the taper at the candle which was burning there. The portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping mouth, and a shriek which she confined to her throat. She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat. It was M. Madeleine. It was several seconds before she could speak; she had a seizure, as she said herself, when she related the adventure afterwards. \"Good God, Monsieur le Maire,\" she cried at last, \"I thought you were—\" She stopped; the conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in respect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean was still Monsieur le Maire to her. He finished her thought. \"In prison,\" said he. \"I was there; I broke a bar of one of the windows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and here I am. I am going up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me. She is with that poor wo- man, no doubt.\" The old woman obeyed in all haste. He gave her no orders; he was quite sure that she would guard him better than he should guard himself. 343

No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the courtyard without opening the big gates. He had, and always carried about him, a pass-key which opened a little side-door; but he must have been searched, and his latch-key must have been taken from him. This point was never explained. He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the top, he left his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door with very little noise, went and closed his window and his shutters by feeling, then returned for his candle and re-entered his room. It was a useful precaution; it will be recollected that his window could be seen from the street. He cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his bed which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder of the night before last remained. The portress had \"done up\" his room; only she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of the cudgel and the forty-sou piece which had been blackened by the fire. He took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote: \"These are the two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of Assizes,\" and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron, and the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be seen on entering the room. From a cupboard he pulled out one of his old shirts, which he tore in pieces. In the strips of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver candlesticks. He betrayed neither haste nor agitation; and while he was wrapping up the Bishop's candle- sticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was probably the prison- bread which he had carried with him in his flight. This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room when the authorities made an examination later on. There came two taps at the door. \"Come in,\" said he. It was Sister Simplice. She was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she carried trembled in her hand. The peculiar feature of the violences of destiny is, that however polished or cool we may be, they wring human nature from our very bowels, and force it to reappear on the surface. The emo- tions of that day had turned the nun into a woman once more. She had wept, and she was trembling. 344

Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper, which he handed to the nun, saying, \"Sister, you will give this to Monsieur le Cure.\" The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it. \"You can read it,\" said he. She read:— \"I beg Monsieur le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me. He will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial, and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor.\" The sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer a few inar- ticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however:— \"Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor, un- happy woman?\" \"No,\" said he; \"I am pursued; it would only end in their arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her.\" He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the stair- case. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps, and the old portress saying in her loudest and most piercing tones:— \"My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the door.\" A man responded:— \"But there is a light in that room, nevertheless.\" They recognized Javert's voice. The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner of the wall on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed himself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table. The door opened. Javert entered. The whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress were audible in the corridor. The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying. The candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very little light. Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement. 345

It will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert, his ele- ment, the very air he breathed, was veneration for all authority. This was impregnable, and admitted of neither objection nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecclesiastical authority was the chief of all; he was re- ligious, superficial and correct on this point as on all others. In his eyes, a priest was a mind, who never makes a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sins; they were souls walled in from this world, with a single door which never opened except to allow the truth to pass through. On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire. But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement was to re- main and to venture on at least one question. This was Sister Simplice, who had never told a lie in her life. Javert knew it, and held her in special veneration in consequence. \"Sister,\" said he, \"are you alone in this room?\" A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress felt as though she should faint. The sister raised her eyes and answered:— \"Yes.\" \"Then,\" resumed Javert, \"you will excuse me if I persist; it is my duty; you have not seen a certain person—a man—this evening? He has es- caped; we are in search of him—that Jean Valjean; you have not seen him?\" The sister replied:— \"No.\" She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other, without hesitation, promptly, as a person does when sacrificing herself. \"Pardon me,\" said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow. O sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you have rejoined your sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the angels, in the light; may this lie be counted to your credit in paradise! The sister's affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing that he did not even observe the singularity of that candle which had but just been extinguished, and which was still smoking on the table. An hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, was rapidly de- parting from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the testimony of two or three carters 346

who met him, that he was carrying a bundle; that he was dressed in a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse? No one ever found out. But an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few days be- fore, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps that was the one. One last word about Fantine. We all have a mother,—the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother. The cure thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he really was, in reserving as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean had left for the poor. Who was concerned, after all? A convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine, and re- duced it to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave. So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery which belongs to anybody and everybody, and where the poor are lost. Fortunately, God knows where to find the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade, among the first bones that came to hand; she was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown into the public grave. Her grave resembled her bed. 347

Part 9 Waterloo 348

Chapter 1 What is met with on the Way from Nivelles Last year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person who is telling this story, was coming from Nivelles, and directing his course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved road, which undulated between two rows of trees, over the hills which succeed each other, raise the road and let it fall again, and produce something in the nature of enormous waves. He had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he per- ceived the slate-roofed tower of Braine-l'Alleud, which has the form of a reversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon an eminence; and at the angle of the cross-road, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet bearing the inscription Ancient Barrier No. 4, a public house, bearing on its front this sign: At the Four Winds (Aux Quatre Vents). Echabeau, Private Cafe. A quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little val- ley, where there is water which passes beneath an arch made through the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely planted but very green trees, which fills the valley on one side of the road, is dispersed over the meadows on the other, and disappears gracefully and as in order in the direction of Braine-l'Alleud. On the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart at the door, a large bundle of hop-poles, a plough, a heap of dried brush- wood near a flourishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and a lad- der suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions. A young girl was weeding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably of some outside spectacle, such as a parish festival, was fluttering in the wind. At one corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla of ducks was navigating, a badly paved path plunged into the bushes. The way- farer struck into this. After traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fifteenth cen- tury, surmounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he 349